Regenesis (v1.2)

by C. J. Cherryh

  “All the same, somebody killed the first Ari,” Amy said grimly, “and we’re not going to lose the second.”

  “I appreciate that vote,” Ari said with a little laugh.

  “Was it Denys that did it?” Amy asked, and that didn’t deserve a laugh.

  “Did we get them all? Or do we have to worry about Hicks and Yanni now?”

  “I hope not,” she said, “but I think about it. I do think about it.”

  “What matters,” Catlin said, “isn’t all who. It’s why. Does the why still exist?”

  There was another small silence.

  “Power,” Amy said. “It was about power. The question is on what scale. Jordan wanting out. Or Denys wanting in.”

  It was a little creepy, sitting and listening to your best friends figuring who’d want to kill you. “There’s a long list,” Ari said. “Power’s one. Revenge, in her case, maybe. But no, I don’t count it solved. I’m quite sure Jordan didn’t do it.”

  “You moved him into Wing One.”

  “Justin did, actually. And Jordan’s behaving himself pretty well. He wrote a tape-set that’s driving me crazy, because I think there isn’t a bug in it. I’m sure he’s laughing. And if there is and I just fail to find it—” She let her voice trail off and gave a shrug. “Better in Wing One, which is watched, than over in Ed with all the traffic. Construction’s starting in Wing One. Remodeling all over the Wing. It’s not going to be very active for the next year. But by the time we’re through, it’ll be up to the standard we hope to set. So, for that matter, will Strassenberg. Every place we build, we do it right the first time.”

  “Are we sure about that company?” Will asked.

  “Fourstar, which is doing Wing One? They got a good contract and don’t have to live in bunkers. Soft job, comparatively. They shouldn’t be discontent. But we’ll just have a deeper look, as Catlin says.”

  “So are you going to go after remodeling Ed, next?”

  “It’s not as bad as Wing One,” Ari said, and shifted in her seat, thinking, I won’t have that much time, that much budget. “We’re going to have to earn our way into the next major project, though.”

  “We cost a lot.” Mika said. “A whole lot. This place is incredible.”

  “You earn it.” Ari said. “You’re important. Whatever you’re doing, you see things, you hear things, you say things. Just never, never forget you’re tied to me, more conspicuously than ever in your lives. Be careful. Just be very, very careful about getting into situations, going places alone… that’s the price you pay for this place. Don’t be alone down at the docks, down in the town, down where the security is just a little less. Let my staff know where you’ll be, when you’ll be, just a convenience for Florian and Catlin, Wes and Marco. they track you, in case you’ve never noticed.”

  “Who’d care,” Yvgenia laughed, “if I went to my hairdresser?”

  “We know you’re there, though,” Ari said soberly. “And if you didn’t show up, we’d know. You’d get a call. If you didn’t answer it, someone would come looking. I don’t say it’ll always be like this, but it will for a while. Expect it. Expect nerves to be pretty taut.”

  “Is there a reason we should know?” Maddy asked.

  “Just—politics,” Ari said. “The Council election’s about to come down to the wire… they’re going to read the results probably on the twenty-fifth. We think Spurlin’s got it, but if Khalid should win, that’s a problem. Two different philosophies in the military. Khalid’s not that careful about observing registration when he goes after information—sees no reason he shouldn’t be able to inquire into Science, or Citizens, or just anybody he doesn’t like. Particularly Science. Don’t get me started on Khalid.”

  “But Spurlin’s got it.”

  “Safely so, we think. He’d have carried Fargone by a big majority, no question, after the new Reseune build at Fargone passed in Council, all those jobs going there, and Spurlin was supporting Jacques voting for it in Council while Khalid was up on the station and not really doing much of anything. Unfortunately the vote was already in progress on Fargone before much of that news had gotten there… unfortunate timing, but we’re hearing there was some favorable impact during the last two days of the balloting. Whether any large number of military was excited enough to go in and change their vote before the deadline, I don’t know, but we think the news did help Spurlin.”

  “But is there that much military at Fargone?” Mischa asked, and Tommy dug an elbow back this time.

  “The whole big hospital installation,” Tommy said. “Which I bet is big enough.”

  “It’s a classified major lot of votes, say—partly because it’s supporting an operation out at Eversnow. Trust me, it is large.”

  Eyes flickered, simultaneous registry of a tidbit of information on the existing universe.

  “The whole military base out there,” Amy said. “Too covert to vote?”

  “So far,” Ari said. “They can’t admit they exist. So they can’t vote.”

  “You know, when Eversnow goes into official operation,” Amy said, “that’s going to take nearly two years to get a vote through.”

  “Going to matter who’s Proxy Councillor-designate when that happens,” Ari said. “It already does, but it’s going to matter a lot more. I like that argument. I’ll use it on Yanni the next time we have a fight about Eversnow. If humankind goes stringing off down Yanni’s route to new stars, we’re going to have elections that last a lifetime. God! That’s more entertainment than the universe needs.”

  “Just cross our fingers about Khalid,” Amy said. “I certainly hope you’re right.”

  “I hope I am, too,” she said. And meant it. Passionately.

  Chapter iii

  July 18, 2424

  1829 H

  “The office all right?” Jordan had asked, for openers.

  “Fine,” Justin had said guardedly.

  And all through dinner they hadn’t talked politics, for once. Jordan talked about psychsets. They, Jordan, Grant, Paul and Justin, talked for two hours about design and sets and things that would bore the adjacent tables in Farrell’s to unconsciousness.

  It was the best evening they’d had since Jordan had come home.

  And it didn’t end in a fight. They walked back via the open air, in balmy night temperatures, walked into Wing One, which lately smelled of paint and plaster, and continued the conversation for a moment in front of the lift, which they hadn’t called.

  “Last night you’ll be buying dinner,” Jordan said. “I’m applying to go on salary.”

  “Seriously?” That wasn’t the right word. Justin tried to find one, and didn’t.

  “I’d expect better than that.”

  “Excellent news.” Grant supplied.

  “I’m taking refresher tape,” Jordan said. “I’m trusting not to be mind-bent. So far so good.”

  “I can’t tell you how glad I am to hear it,” Justin said. “Dad, that’s great.”

  “All I have to get,” Jordan said, “is your little dear’s approval.” That wasn’t so great. “You don’t think I can.”

  “What have you sent her? Dad, this isn’t some game, is it?”

  “Why in hell would you think it’s a game? I don’t think it’s a game.”

  “Dad.” He stopped himself, held up a hand. “I’m glad. All right.”

  “Good,” Jordan said, and punched the lift call button. “You can talk her into it.”

  “Dad, either your designs will, or I can’t.”

  “Oh, I’m sure of my design. I’m very sure of it. How sure are you?”

  “Dammit. Just one evening—just one evening can we manage not to have a quarrel—”

  The car arrived. Opened. Jordan stepped in. So did Paul. “Want to come upstairs and explain why you won’t back it?”

  “I will, dammit. I have to read it first.”

  “Those two statements are contradictory,” Jordan said. “Make up your mind, can’t you?”


  Jordan had let the button go. The doors shut. The car left, upward bound, and their way was back to the U and the Alpha Wing gateway. “Damn,” Justin said.

  “He has improved, however,” Grant said. And they walked in silence.

  Which lasted until they’d gone through security and ridden their lift up to their floor in Alpha Wing.

  It lasted until they reached their own front door, across from hers, and reached their bedroom, and started getting ready for bed.

  “Damn, damn, and damn,” Justin said. “Why is he like that?”

  “You’re the closest to his psychset,” Grant said, “at foundational level, at least.”

  “Not lately. Ari works the deep sets, doesn’t she?”

  “Maybe he’s trying to find out what she did,” Grant said. “Sounds like a probe to me.”

  “Meaning he’s redirected his plan, not his objectives, and he’s still a bastard.”

  “Meaning, perhaps, he wants to know if that indefinable born-man flux still bends in the directions he understands in you. He knows you don’t like conflict. That’s very different than he is. And, forgive me, he doesn’t believe the impulse doesn’t exist in you. He’s fishing for it.”

  “Don’t like conflict. Hell, I hated it when I was ten!”

  “True,” Grant said. “And you grew up with a man who has to have it. What’s that going to do to an impressionable young mind?”

  “Make my life hell.”

  “Do you want my opinion?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Jordan had you born; he started out trying for psychogenesis. And when you got out of the cradle and onto two feet, he came face to face with his genes—his looks—his temper, which he doesn’t control well. You two used to scare hell out of me… when we were seven. You had his temper. He had his temper. And when we were seven he gave you me, and you had to hold it in, because I got upset, and he told you so. Nasty little trick, that was. As I faintly understand the rules of born-man combat—that was fairly underhanded. It assured he could always win a fight. And we know he has one other quirk: he likes to fight, but he has to win all the fights, or he’s going to be very unhappy. I can just go null. I did, if you recall, at certain times.”

  “I remember.”

  “Impossible for his replicate, however.”

  “I’d try to calm him down, to get you out of it.”

  “So it wasn’t just Ari had a go at remodeling the Warrick psyche. He’d already blinked at creating his own double. He couldn’t take the arguments. You were seven. And he just had to win, didn’t he, or burst a blood vessel?”

  It was certainly a point. He gazed at Grant, who had a momentarily earnest look, saw at least what made a certain grim sense.

  “He ties you in knots,” Grant said. “And you remain the one that can return the favor… if you ever would, but you never let that shoe drop. In the meanwhile, he ran afoul of another man who didn’t like to lose.”

  “Giraud.”

  “Who hated him. And what the Nyes did to him was make him afraid for Paul.”

  He stared off across the room, seeing—seeing Giraud, and one of those small nasty rooms. Terror, when he didn’t know where Grant was.

  “You think he’s lying about starting work again?”

  “He may try. He may be trying. Or he may be trying something else. You’re the great unanswered question to him. More than she is. He thinks he knows what she is; and he’s likely wrong; and the fact he might actually see that is going to frustrate him more, because he can’t prove what he thinks is true, is actually true. You completely frustrate him. You’re supposed to be him, never mind he took the one step, reining in your very nicely adrenalized temper, that assured you never would be him. It’s always amazed me how intelligent born-men, designers, can flux that far, that they can do something they know absolutely flies in the face of the result they want to get, and never expect it not to work out the way they want. If I designed an azi set like that, what would you tell me?”

  “That it’s a conflict.”

  “Beyond a simple conflict, born-man. It’s a roaring great deep set/ psychset mismatch.”

  He heaved a breath, found himself mentally shying away from the concept of going after Jordan with the same energy Jordan used on him—because, dammit, he knew that would be a blowup to end all blowups. “It’s beyond a simple conflict. It’s that two Jordans can’t occupy the same space. Neither could two Aris. Psychogenesis works if one of the participants is dead.”

  “Please don’t go that far.”

  “You’re saying it’s irresolvable.”

  “That the temper is there. That you either defuse it so it doesn’t bother you at all, or you and he will continue to go at each other over the most minor of differences.”

  “That’s grim.”

  “I, however, have faith in you,” Grant said. “You’re better than he is and you have no need to prove it to him. Just don’t let him suspect it, is all. He’s competitive, if you’ve missed that.”

  “But how can I live with him?”

  “That,” Grant said, “is going to be a lasting problem.”

  He didn’t sleep well. He lay staring at the water-rippled ceiling, trying to find some null point in the fractal patterns, but his mind was awake and racing.

  He laid out mental patterns for a living. He cured azi problems, when something had gone wrong. He’d never cured his own, which was that gut-deep knot that happened when he got into an argument. He’d always assumed, assumed, because that was the watershed point of his life, that the first Ari had set that into him, a flinch away from anger.

  But Grant had handed him a key, a memory that hadn’t been that significant, until he recalled—past the towering dark of that night in Ari’s apartment—that Jordan had told him that, the day he gave him Grant for his own responsibility.

  Responsibility.

  Hostage. With the very proper advice that he couldn’t let his temper go again, not with Grant.

  Possibly Jordan had given him that responsibility completely coldbloodedly, seeing it as a way to win the argument with a matching temper, which had been, admittedly, out of control. Jordan reined it in for Paul. He had to for Grant. It was symmetrical, wasn’t it?

  God, he thought. There was a saying in Reseune, that a designer with himself for a patient was a damned fool. There was a reason there was a psych overseeing psych operators. There was another saying among designers, to the effect that CITs were a guaranteed bitch-up. He’d had Jordan’s temper. He’d traded it for a gut-deep knot; and Jordan didn’t get mad at Paul—Jordan just made Paul suffer the effects of Jordan’s getting mad at everybody else—of Jordan’s getting mad at himself, very possibly, but mostly just battering himself against anything that opposed him. No compromise with the universe. Jordan was a Special, a certified genius at what he did, but Jordan had reached a point with a seven-year-old where he’d couldn’t win the fight. So he’d just shut it down.

  And Ari, with her own very active temper, had gotten hold of that situation and jerked it sideways… with much more cold calculation, and more accuracy, maybe, than Jordan had been capable of using. He’d had a brain. His ideas had been fairly well out-there. Jordan had a habit of getting impatient with his what-ifs and shutting them down, hard. Damned nonsense, was what Jordan called his ideas. Ari had called them interesting.

  He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to control the immediate visuals. Trying to shut Ari down and get Jordan in some kind of perspective, as not a bad man—just a hard-headed one who’d tried to steer him into a Jordan-esque path.

  And God knew what Jordan’s own upbringing had been—a father brusque, emotionally shut down, very much on facts as he interpreted them to be, he had gotten that impression, at least, of the man who was, in a sense, his real father, since he was Jordan’s, mother—there had been, obviously, since Jordan himself wasn’t a clone, but nobody that had stayed; maybe nobody who’d even been there, people who died in the early
days—sometimes left legacies in lab. Ended up being the gene donors for the foundational azi lines Jordan’s mother could have been cells in a dish, for all the record he’d ever laid hands on.

  Didn’t make him unhappy, in the sense that he’d always been just as content to be like Grant, who was fairly perfect, in his eyes, both motherless and fatherless. He’d always been content to be Jordan’s Parental Replicate. But it was a question, whether if there’d been another influence in Jordan’s growing up, if Jordan would have grown up with a little doubt that one truth covered everything in the universe.

  Jordan got the flaw from his father; Jordan tried to replicate himself, that was the damned key. Jordan hadn’t started with the concept of a kid who’d have his own notions—Jordan had tried to trim off any bits that didn’t match him… had fixed him on Grant, the way he’d fixed on Paul, only in that household there’d been room for only one personality, and nobody could argue with it.

  CIT. Designer. And thorough bitch-up. No question. Ari could stand him off temper for temper. But she hadn’t been able to work with him.

  She’d conned him, was what. She’d conned Jordan into the whole concept of a psychological replicate, then snatched the result and did a job on it.

  He lay there, totally null for a moment, asking if it really hurt as much as it once had. Thinking that—if not for Ari—he’d have made Grant into Paul.

  Which couldn’t happen, because Grant wasn’t Paul. And she’d gotten Jordan to accept Grant, because it was so damned hard to get an alpha companion, and the labs had had only one—that she’d created, knowing right then and there what should have been so, so clear to Jordan—that Grant wasn’t Paul. Grant wasn’t compliant. Grant was a fine, fine piece of work, who had taken his own path and already begun to drag a young born-man sideways. Jordan might have laid down Grant’s early programs, but not his absolute earliest, preverbal ones; and beyond that—Grant had just—self-directed. Psychologically, endocrine level and all, stable as they came, and an intellect that might well get beyond him.

  Ari’s best. Ari’s near-last project, right along with the design that would replicate herself. Thank God for Grant. Thank Ari.